


Before I Wake

by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Frenemies to Friends, Gen, I'm so sorry Kunimi, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-23 12:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/Karasuno%20Volleygays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kunimi Akira takes his physical therapy like he takes everything else in his life: quietly and one day at a time. Maybe because it's easier that way, or maybe because he can't bear to look back. But when Kageyama Tobio blunders back into Kunimi's life, he starts to think that maybe it's time to pick up the pieces and remember how he ended up all alone in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before I Wake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [newamsterdam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/gifts).



> I didn't mean to make this sad. I just picked the pairing and started writing. This is what came out. You said you wanted any combo for KinKuniKage, so here ya go.

An unpleasant drizzle of sweat races down the line of Kunimi’s spine as he pedals harder on the stationary bike until he meets his required number of rotations. Thighs burning, he lets the momentum of the pedals drag his legs around and around a few more times until they drift to a stop.

“That’s enough for today,” his physical therapist, Shiraishi, says as he hands Kunimi a towel. “How is your Achilles holding up?”

“Better,” Kunimi remarks, noting that his newly-healed Achilles is probably the only part of his legs that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. Everything else aches from months of disuse. “Maybe it was a little too much. I hurt everywhere.”

Shiraishi nods. “That’s a given. The massages should help with that, and if you have someone at home to help you stretch out a couple of times a day, that would do a lot to keep it from getting worse.”

 _Not really_ , Kunimi thinks as he tells Shiraishi what he wants to hear. “Of course.”

“Now, off you go.” Shiraishi propels Kunimi towards the door. “We have some sports medicine students doing clinic hours, so you’ll probably get your massage from one of them. They will be supervised, but if you would rather have a certified therapist give you your massage, just let them know when you check in.”

Kunimi shrugs. “It’s all the same to me.”

With that, Kunimi heads down the long hallway away from the room he cannot wait to leave behind. It’s been four months of healing since the accident, and Kunimi, while not entirely displeased by Shiraishi’s demeanor, is wholly tired of the man. His outlook is relentlessly positive, and on some of the worst days he’s had in his recovery, Kunimi can’t exactly say he wants that kind of thing in his life all the time.

But the massage therapists are usually quiet and attentive to his reactions to their treatments, so he has nothing against them even if having a stranger’s hands on his body isn’t something he would consider ideal. He can spend an hour forgetting that he lives alone. Forgetting that there is no one at home to stretch out his abused limbs. Forgetting that he’s twenty-five years old and has no direction in his life except for work.

Brushing those thoughts aside, Kunimi finds the room number he had been given upon check-in and immediately begins to undress, flinging his sweats over a chair in a chaotic array. The first few times he had received full-body massages, he had insisted on keeping his underwear. However, after one session with a great set of hands and a blunt statement that he’s only impeding his own well-being, Kunimi will never deny himself the pleasure of having strong, talented fingers knead away the stress on every part of him.

Kunimi lies face-down on the table, with only a bathing towel draped over his middle, and closes his eyes in anticipation. A few minutes later, the door clicks open, and the familiar sounds of one of the clinic’s regular masseurs (he can’t remember his name, as most of his sessions end with Kunimi in an almost liquid state) ushers in two sets of footfalls. Kunimi supposes this is his fledgling therapist and hopes that the quality of the other doctor’s work rubs off on this one.

The doctor’s instructions are met with a series of grunts, and Kunimi hopes this means the guy (at least, he thinks it’s a guy) will be strong and non-talkative. And as that new set of hands gets to work on his neck and works their way down, Kunimi finds himself pleasantly unsurprised. As the newcomer sets to work on his strained lower back, Kunimi can’t help but groan into the U-shaped face rest. The motion of the hands on his back falters for a moment, but at the doctor’s urging, they continue their descent.

An hour doesn’t feel like enough time as much as it seems like forever as the session finishes up, with the regular doctor explaining all the things his student did right (which, in Kunimi’s opinion, is pretty much everything) and the techniques he needs to work on.

As Kunimi works up the motivation to slither off of the table and get dressed, those same hands fall on his shoulders, accompanied by a murmur of, “Easy. Let me help you.”

Even as he is grateful for the help, the voice sounds so startlingly familiar to Kunimi that he whips his head around to see who it is. His eyes widen and his jaw drops when he sees a face that he thought he had left behind with high school. Large blue eyes meet his, still framed by impossibly straight hair and the most uninvolved stare ever.

“This is awkward,” Kunimi says with a chortle. “I didn’t know you got into medicine, Kageyama. I kind of just pictured you playing volleyball forever.”

Kageyama nods. “I still play.”

“Good,” Kunimi answers sincerely. “It would be weird if you didn’t.”

But while Kunimi is trying to picture Kageyama sitting through hours upon hours per day of textbooks and lectures without his head exploding, Kageyama is already halfway to helping Kunimi get dressed. “You don’t have to do that,” Kunimi says as he plucks his hoodie out of Kageyama’s hands. “My leg is fucked up, not the rest of me.”

Behind them, the doctor hums. “You two know each other?”

“Yes,” Kunimi and Kageyama reply in unison. Kunimi adds, “We played volleyball together in middle school and against each other in high school.”

Kageyama drags a worried glance back and forth between the doctor and Kunimi. “Is that a problem, Kiriyama-sensei?”

Kiriyama (Kunimi thought it started with a Ki) laughs and shakes his head. “No. It was just strange to see either of you talking to anyone else.”

Kunimi’s lips twitch into a smile. “This is usually my peace and quiet time, but Kageyama’s technique felt just as good as anyone else’s. I have no problem at all if he works on me again.”

“Excellent!” Kiriyama claps Kageyama on the shoulder. “This is your last one of the day, anyway. Why don’t I leave you two to catch up!”

With that, the two of them are alone in a room for the first time in a decade.

“This is weird.” Kunimi eyeballs the expanse of the empty, darkened room.

“Yeah.” Kageyama shrugs and holds out Kunimi’s forgotten hoodie. “Is someone going to pick you up, or are you taking the bus?”

“Bus.” Kunimi shivers at the idea of getting into a car again. “Are you heading home, then?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He hears something vacant in Kageyama’s tone and thinks it isn’t much different than his own over the past handful of months spent in recovery on his own. Kunimi shrugs and drags his hoodie over his head. “Same. Where are you living these days?”

Kageyama starts, jolted by Kunimi’s unexpected interest in his life. Kunimi doesn’t even know why he asked, but just the same, he isn’t entirely indifferent to the potential answer. “If we’re in the same neighborhood at all, maybe we could go get something to eat.”

“I — that’s fine.” Kageyama reddens at his fumbled answer, and Kunimi thinks his old despot of a setter hasn’t completely changed but that it isn’t a bad thing.

They leave the clinic together, with Kageyama’s own unit situated not far from Kunimi’s. They settle on a yakiniku place that Kunimi probably can’t afford, but the restaurant has great desserts and house-made ice cream that could make angels cry. He expects no argument from Kageyama, who looks like he’s salivating at the mention of grilled meat.

Both of them take turns flipping the slices of meat on the tabletop grill in silence, with an occasional furtive glance from Kageyama here and there until Kunimi sets the tongs down with a sigh. “This is stupid. Whatever is going on in that bowlcut brain of yours, just spit it out.”

Kageyama flinches at Kunimi’s sharp command, but he does as he’s told. “I was just wondering why Kindaichi isn’t with you. You shouldn’t go to therapy alone.”

The name Kunimi thinks about more than he cares to admit but hasn’t spoken aloud for some time makes Kunimi close his eyes and take a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says flatly before continuing his grilling, giving Kageyama an extra-large pile of beef in the hope that it will stop him from asking any more questions like _that_.

Their meal passes by in silence, the sizzle of meat the loudest noise coming from their table until Kageyama stacks their cleared plates in a neat pile waiting to be taken away, while Kunimi pushes the grill off to the side. They don’t even bother with dessert.

When the bill arrives, Kageyama pays it before Kunimi can so much as make a grab for it, and two long, quiet hours later, they’re at the bus stop, waiting for the ride home to separate them and put them out of their misery.

Or not.

Kunimi is surprised when Kageyama gets off at Kunimi’s stop, an arm immediately cast around his shoulders as they walk the half of a block that it takes to get to Kunimi’s building, a sushi shop with a half-dozen rooms above it. As they arrive, Kageyama looks at Kunimi in question. “I thought you hated fish.”

“I do,” Kunimi says with a chortle. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

Kageyama shakes his head. “I never forgot anything about you guys.” With that, he takes the keys from Kunimi’s frozen hand and opens the door to the stairs.

Still shocked by Kageyama’s attention to this minor detail, Kunimi is wordless as they awkwardly ascend the stairs. He finds himself grateful for the assistance, as the day at work had been exceedingly long and his bi-weekly appointment at the therapist too long in coming.

“It’s Unit 3,” Kunimi offers once they clear the stairwell. Kageyama gives him a curt bob of the head and helps a pained Kunimi to his door and inside.

The studio is almost as bare as it was when Kunimi had moved in about a year ago. There is a small television set on the floor, plugged into a laptop, and a futon rolled out in front of it. There is little else in the room except a gaping closet door, revealing Kunimi’s work wardrobe on hangers and his everyday clothing wadded up in the basket on the floor. His dirty laundry is strewn in organized chaos along the adjacent wall near the bathroom, waiting to be hand-washed and slung over the shower curtain rail to dry.

But Kageyama’s eyes are glued on the unkempt futon. “You sleep here?”

Kunimi shrugs. “Beats sleeping outside. It’s a normal apartment, you know.”

“I know, but —” Kageyama looks down at Kunimi’s injured left leg and scowls. “There is no support. It will take too long for you to heal.”

Scoffing, Kunimi rolls his eyes. “It’s already been too long. But I don’t have a hundred-thousand yen to spring on a real bed. I can barely afford physical therapy.” Actually, he _can’t_ afford therapy at all, but he’s not paying for it. What he can’t afford is the time he missed after the accident and the eight hours per week that he has to take off to make his appointments.

Kageyama glares at him and crosses his arms. “You’re not doing your stretches, either.”

It comes out as a statement rather than a query, and Kunimi doesn’t mind because it happens to be true. “Yeah, not really. It’s kind of hard to rack your own leg back to your chin.”

“On the floor,” Kageyama commands, jabbing a finger towards the futon. “On there, to reduce the stress on your back and neck.”

Now _this_ is the Kageyama he remembers. “Yes, Kageyama-sama,” he sneers with a mock salute. “Your command is my . . . you know, fuck it. I don’t even care anymore.”

Kageyama’s eyes widen as Kunimi flops on the floor in a sprawl of limbs, waiting for His Highness to hold up his end of the bargain. “Well?”

Without a word, Kageyama drops to his knees and starts with the regular regimen of stretches Kunimi hasn’t bothered with for the two weeks or so he’s been under command to do them.

He hates to admit how good it feels, the way his muscles burn in response to something they used to do every day. But high school had turned into college and college into workload, which meant no more volleyball, with Kunimi’s fitness levels in the hands of however many hours he could manage to scrape together to make it to the campus gym.

But those days are long gone, and Kunimi doesn’t have anything left of them except for the memory of what his muscles felt like when they reacted to his will.

It ends far too quickly for Kunimi’s taste, leaving him drooped on his futon with Kageyama sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at him intently. It isn’t until Kunimi bites out a, “What!” that Kageyama’s expression changes at all.

“What happened?”

Kunimi knows what Kageyama is asking, but he isn’t ready to talk to someone who isn’t nearly enough of a stranger to trust with that kind of thing. Instead, he skirts with a half-hearted, “You gave me a good massage and a good stretch. Oh, and we had dinner.”

Kageyama’s eyes narrow, and Kunimi knows he’s annoyed and very aware that his questions are being avoided. “Where is Kindaichi, and why isn’t he helping you?”

Not prepared to hear that name twice in one day, Kunimi snaps, “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“I don’t have his number!” Kageyama looks away, and Kunimi almost laughs when he sees that Kageyama is pouting. “He should be ashamed.”

Kunimi huffs. “He might be. He’s like that.” Rolling over, Kunimi drags a blanket over his shoulders and grumbles, “I’m tired, so if you wouldn’t mind locking up on your way out . . .”

Kageyama stills, but before Kunimi knows what he’s doing, he plucks Kunimi’s phone off the floor and flips it open. A few minutes later, he puts it back down next to Kunimi’s head. “I’ll be back in the morning at seven to stretch your legs out.”

The door slams shut behind Kageyama, and as soon as it does, Kunimi grabs at his phone to see what Kageyama had done. His jaw drops when he sees that the calendar application has been plugged full of Kageyama-generated appointments. Every morning, ‘Stretches’ is scheduled at 0700, and again at 2000, with a random appointment noted only as ‘Bed’ slotted in for Saturday afternoon.

“You bastard,” Kunimi grumbles as he considers deleting them, only to toss down his phone in annoyance because he knows Kageyama will show up anyway. Considering he writes down times like train schedules, he’ll probably show up right on cue.

It’s not even twenty minutes before Kunimi drifts off to sleep, limbs pleasantly tingling from the stretching rather than straining to keep him awake with their dull ache.

At 6:40, his phone blares to life, jolting him out of a dreamless, meat-induced sleep. “What the hell.” Slapping at his keypad to silence the alarm, his bleary eyes see that it’s actually a phone call. From Kageyama.

“I’ll be by in ten minutes. Are you awake?”

Kunimi holds the phone away from his face, too tired to censor the automatic, “Dumbass,” that sprouts out of his mouth. “Of course I’m awake.”

Kageyama takes the insult in stride, and before he hangs up, he adds a quick, “Don’t fall back asleep.”

Awake an hour earlier than he ever bothers, Kunimi pries himself out of his nest of blankets, already missing the warmth. He wonders if he should bother changing out of the sweats he wore all day yesterday and had slept in, but he shrugs off that thought and replaces it with the observation that Kageyama doesn’t have the right to complain after impugning upon Kunimi’s quiet home life.

At 7:00 sharp, the buzz of the front door alarm sounds, and Kunimi presses the button to let Kageyama into the building. The thought of refusing entry, he muses, will only bring on more phone calls and more buzzing until Kunimi finally caves. He would much rather skip that step and get on with his day.

Leaving the bolt unlocked, Kunimi heads straight back for his futon and lies down the same way he had the night before. When Kageyama knocks, Kunimi shoots a pre-prepared text of _It’s open_.

There are no greetings as Kageyama admits himself and gets to work on the stretches. Just as they had been before, Kageyama’s hands are quick and efficient as they elicit the pleasant sensation of activity in Kunimi’s limbs. Even if the presence responsible will probably sour his mood, it’s almost worth it because Kunimi knows a day at his desk will be a little less miserable.

When Kageyama finishes, he leaves Kunimi on the floor and heads straight for the kitchenette. There is a cacophony of doors opening and shutting before Kageyama’s irritated shadow falls over Kunimi as he demands, “Where is all the food?”

“Get your own,” Kunimi complains. “I’m broke. I’m not feeding you, too.”

Kageyama taps his foot, his jaw grinding as he likely fights off the urge to strangle Kunimi. “How are you supposed to heal when you don’t have anything but instant noodles to eat?”

“Slowly, and might I ask why it’s any of your business.” Kunimi quirks a brow. “Is that part of the services? Following me home and telling me what to do in my own apartment?”

Kageyama’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “It’s because you won’t! Why do you live here alone? Why do you not eat right? Why?”

“I don’t know!” Kunimi cries, covering his ears with his hands. “Will you just lay off?”

“No.” Kageyama holds out a hand and gestures for Kunimi to stand. “We’re going to the store.”

Kunimi brushes off Kageyama’s hand with a curt, “No.” Edging away, he reiterates, “Now go away.”

“No.” Kageyama stands there, waiting for Kunimi’s compliance, and when it doesn’t come, he takes the keys sprawled out next to the television and heads for the door. “I’ll be back.”

“Goody,” Kunimi moans into his pillow as he draws his hood over his head, hoping that he can catch a few extra minutes of sleep before he has to leave for work in an hour.

Twenty minutes later, the door slides open, and the keys clank back down on the tatami where they had last been. A pair of grocery bags from the convenience store down the street loom over his head as they hang from Kageyama’s fist. “You should get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”

Surprised enough to lurch into action on command, Kunimi wonders aloud, “Can you even cook?”

“Of course.” Kageyama unpacks the contents of the bags into the small refrigerator. “No one can live off of takeout.”

“Watch me.” Kunimi yawns loudly and stretches his arms. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Food.”

Kunimi chirps a laugh as he stumbles towards the shower. The warm water feels good on his body, and it’s hard to pry himself out until he smells the tell-tale scent of cooking meat. “So he can cook,” he murmurs as he towels himself off and lazily tugs on a pair of underwear.

As it turns out, Kageyama is definitely a proficient cook, and the tempura beef and vegetables he offers are, while simple fare, prepared well and taste good. Kunimi admits to himself that he probably would have paid 1500 yen for something similar instead of getting it as his reward for not punching Kageyama in the face after all of his badgering.

After they finish a quiet breakfast, Kageyama cleans up while Kunimi dresses for work. Both leave the apartment together and wait for two different buses. Kunimi’s arrives first, and as he boards, he throws an awkward little wave over his shoulder before the doors slap shut behind him.

Work drones on, but as anticipated, trips back and forth to the printer are not quite as trying as they have been lately. When he goes to clock out for the day, he actually has enough energy to head straight for the elevator to the ground floor of the accounting firm, rather than lean against a cubicle waiting for his leg to stop throbbing. His ankle still pains him, but not enough to hobble his escape.

At home, Kunimi finally inspects the contents of his refrigerator for the first time since he needed anything from there that hadn’t been a languishing takeout carton. “You health-nut loser,” he mumbles as he sees a fresh pile of vegetables, tofu pressing on the top shelf, and a _lot_ of milk. “What does he think I am, a kid?”

Shrugging, Kunimi harrumphs and pops open one of the cartons of milk and takes a long drag of it straight from the container. “At least it’s not skim milk,” Kunimi remarks as he stows it once more.

His search of the cabinets shows a huge bag of rice, enough nori to make it through a zombie apocalypse, and meal replacement bars. “Hmm,” Kunimi muses as he looks over the box, smiling just a little when he notices that the flavor is salted caramel. “These will be good for lunch.”

Bored and too broke to do anything else, Kunimi decides to attack his dirty laundry. He is just finishing up draping the sodden garments over any available surface when the buzzer sounds. “How annoyingly punctual,” Kunimi complains even as he crosses the room to buzz Kageyama in and unlock the door.

Kageyama enters the apartment with little noise and no demands, which makes Kunimi look over at him in surprise. “You’re being quiet today, and not in that ‘I’m a nasty old grump’ way. It’s kind of creeping me out.”

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama says, head hanging as he bows to Kunimi. “I have been rude to you, and I apologize.”

Kunimi blinks in surprise, gaping at Kageyama’s prostrate form before he manages to say, “Apology accepted. You can make it up to me by helping me stretch, and making dinner if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Kageyama moves into action, giving Kunimi the stretching he has already come to crave and then the hot, tasty meal he doesn’t mind too much, either.

After they’re finished, Kunimi sits on his futon and expects Kageyama to follow, only to find his forcible houseguest to be halfway out the door before he calls, “Hey, come back here.”

Kageyama stops and closes the door, but he doesn’t come anywhere nearer. If Kunimi has to guess, he would venture to say that Kageyama looks ashamed. While his insistent care, bordering on smothering, has been bothersome, Kunimi can’t deny the positive effect it has had on him in only a day. “Now sit down.”

Staring slack-jawed, Kageyama does as he’s bid, even if he doesn’t look over at Kunimi once. However, before Kunimi can demand answers, Kageyama says blankly, “I called Oikawa-san to ask about you.”

“Ha!” Kunimi snorts. He hasn’t spoken to Oikawa Tooru in years, so he can’t imagine what his former senpai could possibly know that would induce a change this drastic in Kageyama’s demeanor. Other than just being their awkward, childish asshole selves while around each other. “I bet that was fun,” he adds, wondering if listening to Kageyama’s perpetual inferiority complex towards Oikawa would cheer both of them up. Or at least Kunimi.

“He yelled at me.” Kageyama sighs and shakes his head. “First for calling him, and then for bullying you.”

Kunimi rolls his eyes. “Like he even knows anything anyway.”

Kageyama gives Kunimi a strange look. “He said you’ve been through enough, and if I want to know more, I have to wait for you to tell me.” He sighs and looks down at his hands. “When I asked him about Kindaichi, he hung up.”

“Good.” Kunimi takes in Kageyama’s awkward silence after this, his shaking hands that don’t know what to do with themselves. A thread of pity coils in him, and he groans. “No, it’s not good. But like he said, it was a lot, and I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

Kunimi drops his head on Kageyama’s shoulder. “I don’t know why you care so much about me, but it’s kind of nice. Maybe when you’re ready, you can tell me why you care so much, but until then, let’s keep something to ourselves, okay?”

“Okay.” Kageyama’s hand reaches over and rests on Kunimi’s knee, giving it a little bit of a squeeze. “Are you feeling better today?”

Nodding into Kageyama’s shoulder, Kunimi murmurs, “Yeah. Better than I have in a long time.”

“Good.” Kageyama shifts so Kunimi can lean on him at a more comfortable angle. The effort fails, and Kunimi’s head ends up in his lap, but neither of them are averse to the arrangement, it appears, as Kunimi hangs on tightly and Kageyama’s hand moves to course through his hair. “Good.”

Kunimi doesn’t remember falling asleep or being put to bed, but he awakens before sunrise, refreshed and ready to go, surprised when his phone tells him it’s a little before six. Ready to tackle the day, he heads straight for the shower and is already toweled off and waiting when Kageyama calls again at 6:40. “Yeah, I’m already up.”

When Kageyama arrives, Kunimi is herding his clean laundry while a pot of rice is cooking. “Good morning,” he says as the door closes.

“You seem well,” Kageyama remarks as he takes in the cleaner state of the apartment, as well as its occupant. “Did you sleep okay?”

Kunimi smiles. “I think it’s the milk, actually. I might start drinking it before bed more often.”

“Good.” Kageyama moves to the futon, where Kunimi lies in wait, beginning the stretches without preamble. “I should have asked yesterday, but is tomorrow still okay?”

“Huh?” Kunimi’s brow furrows, only to remember the mysterious 2:00 appointment forced into his calendar. “Whatever ‘BED’ is supposed to mean. As long as it doesn’t involve something horrific, that’s fine.”

Kageyama sighs in relief. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay.”

They finish their session and breakfast ahead of schedule, and for the first time in months, Kunimi is ready to take on his day. His change of demeanor must have been pronounced, he thinks as he leaves for the day, having had half a dozen co-workers comment on his improved attitude and performance.

Dinner is done before Kageyama even gets to the apartment, and they share the first hot meal Kunimi has prepared in a long, long time.

He is speechless when the ‘bed’ turns out to be a trip to Kageyama’s parents’ house to chat with Kageyama’s mother about weather while Kageyama and his father pack up the former’s old bed from his childhood room.

Both of the elder Kageyamas insist that Kunimi is doing them a favor, as they wish to turn the room into a small office where their son can start his own practice. Kunimi wants to ask where Kageyama is supposed to sleep, but he declines and lets this insistent bunch do as they please.

By the time their next stretching session is set to begin, Kunimi and Kageyama are finishing up a hefty round of pork curry, courtesy of Kageyama’s mother, and sleepy from the amount of food they’ve both inhaled. After stretching, they both end up draped all over the guest bed, neither willing to move.

But even as he fights to stay awake, Kunimi reaches over and brushes his fingers against Kageyama’s arm. “Hey, Kageyama.”

There is a grunt disguised as a hum in response, and Kunimi continues, “Thank you for this. All of it.”

“Any time.” Kageyama wraps his arms around his pillow and buries his face. “Breakfast will be at six. They like to get up early.”

As he settles in for the night, Kunimi mutters, “That explains that, then.”

The days that follow roll on in similar fashion, with Kageyama slowly but surely helping Kunimi back to his independence. In only a month, Kunimi has breakfast and dinner, respectively, waiting by the time Kageyama arrives each time. In three months, Kunimi is able to follow Kageyama on his morning runs, though not at the pace Kageyama probably prefers.

It’s on one such sweaty Sunday morning five months after that fated clinic visit that Kunimi decides that it’s been long enough.

Both of them panting as they lean against the side of some random restaurant, Kunimi gasps, “Can we go somewhere? There’s something I need to show you.”

Kageyama tugs the towel out of the back pocket of his track bottoms, mops his brown, and nods as he passes it over to Kunimi. “That’s probably enough running for you today, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Kunimi agrees, his limbs feeling suddenly weak as he thinks about where he’s taking Kageyama, rather than from the exertion of running his first five kilometers in almost a year. “Do you want to change, or are you okay like this? It won’t matter either way.”

Clearly puzzled and intrigued, Kageyama shakes his head and gestures. “After you.”

So they walk. Kunimi knows the way, even if it’s a trip he hasn’t made in ten months. Once had been enough back then, but as he slowly feels his body regaining life below him, he knows it’s time to go back. Kageyama follows quietly, not asking where they’re going, until they arrive at a convalescent home down the street from the university hospital.

“Kunimi,” Kageyama finally asks, “why are we here?”

Reaching out and taking Kageyama’s hand almost as much for his own sake as Kageyama’s, Kunimi takes a fortifying breath and explains, “Because I’m ready to tell you now.”

At the front desk, Kunimi gives both of their names in exchange for a room number, and he leads Kageyama down the long, sterile hallway before stopping outside of Room 22.

“Before we go in, there are some things you need to know.” Kunimi squeezes his eyes shut, an avalanche of old, buried feelings tumbling down on top of his head as he allows himself to freely think of that night that both feels like days ago and like a lifetime ago. But Kageyama has given him so much without asking for anything in return other than to understand Kunimi’s pain.

It is a long time in coming, but Kunimi is ready to fill that order. “Up until my injury, Kindaichi and I were . . .” Not sure how Kageyama will feel about this next piece of information, let alone his ability to process anything more subtle, Kunimi decides bluntness is the best course. “We were together. Intimately. He was my boyfriend, who I had sex with. A lot.”

Kageyama’s face grows hot, but he gives Kunimi a slight nod, for which he is relieved. “We were together since college.”

“Okay.” Kageyama looks at the looming door next to them and back to Kunimi. “What changed?”

Kunimi wraps his arms around his middle, willing his guts to stay in place and hoping this next confession doesn’t make him throw up on the spot. His lip quivers from the effort, but his shaking subsides when he feels Kageyama’s strong hand curled so gently around his upper arm.

“We had a fight,” Kunimi croaks, eyes glued to the stark white tile floors. “I stormed out of the apartment, and I told him I’d be back when I damn well felt like it. If ever.

“He ran after me, apologizing the entire time like it was something he could fix with ‘sorry’. We were half a block away from home when he just about caught up to me. I told him to go away, and he refused. We were too busy yelling at each other to hear it.”

Kageyama grows rigid beside him, fingers digging a little too hard into Kunimi’s arm as he asks more softly than Kunimi would have thought him capable of, “Hear what?”

“There was some kind of robbery a couple of blocks away, and the police were chasing the criminal’s getaway car. They told me the car hit a broken bottle in the street, and it blew out the tire. It slid out of control going around a turn, and it was coming right at me.”

Kunimi buries his face in Kageyama’s shoulder, shivering as he lets out a choked sob he hasn’t allowed himself for all these months. “Yuutarou, he . . . he pushed me out of the way. I fell and ripped my Achilles on the way down, but I didn’t even care because the car hit him head on.”

Kageyama’s arms wrap around Kunimi’s body, holding tightly as Kunimi coughs and cries out a lifetime’s worth of guilt. It’s a long time before Kunimi is able to stand up straight without Kageyama to hold him up, and he sees that Kageyama’s own eyes are red and blurred with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Kageyama croaks. “I should have known.”

Shaking his head, Kunimi rests his forehead against Kageyama’s. “No, you shouldn’t. Why would you?”

“Because you’re my friend, and you love him,” Kageyama blurts, and Kunimi pulls back to look at Kageyama in wonder.

“I don’t know what that school did to you, but you are not the Kageyama I used to know.”

Kageyama reaches up and brushes the wet trails off of Kunimi’s cheeks. “Good. I never want to be that person again. Especially not to you.” He looks back at the door behind him. “Either of you.”

Kunimi reaches up and covers Kageyama’s hand with his own. “I don’t deserve that from you. I haven’t been to see him since it happened.” He gags on his own words as he looks over at that door again. “I couldn’t see him like that. Not because of me.”

Face hardening, Kageyama reaches up and traps Kunimi’s wrists, eyes narrowing as his far more familiar angry gaze pins Kunimi to that spot. “This is not because of you. It’s not your fault, and it isn’t Kindaichi’s fault, either. Don’t be stupid; it’s beneath you.”

Kunimi gawks at Kageyama in bald surprise as the latter reaches over to open the door. He expects a reflex of horror from himself, an urge to run away and never come back, to pretend Kindaichi Yuutarou no longer exists; instead, he follows Kageyama into the room, eyes closed until they ease to a stop.

It’s different than Kunimi remembers. _Kindaichi_ is different. Where he recalls wires and tubes and a fleet of machines pumping air and life in and out of Kindaichi’s sallow shell, there is very little of that. Skin almost translucent, Kindaichi looks so much smaller than his 193cm frame, like he’s a child gone to sleep but the sun never came up, despite the buckets of sunlight pouring in through the open window.

The only apparatus clinging to Kindaichi is a little clip on his finger, which sends his thirty-one heartbeats per minute to the machine mounted on the wall behind him, and an IV bag hanging off of a stand nearby. Settling on the edge of the bed, Kunimi’s shuddering fingers reach out to trace the line of Kindaichi’s pale jaw, finding it warm despite the rest of him looking like death.

“Yuutarou,” Kunimi gasps, nuzzling his face into his boyfriend’s sunken belly. “I miss you.”

At the foot of the bed, Kageyama flips through Kindaichi’s chart. “He’s been breathing on his own for about six months now, and overall, his body is in decent condition considering his injuries from the accident.”

Kunimi bites his lip and takes a snotty breath. “Why won’t he wake up?”

Kageyama shakes his head. “I don’t know enough to tell you. As far as I can tell, he should. But there are so many things we don’t know about the human body.”

“I’m sorry,” Kunimi squeaks, holding Kindaichi tighter. “I should have been here. I left you all alone, but I should have been here.”

Kunimi cries himself into exhaustion into Kindaichi’s chest, and Kageyama lets him. It’s almost an hour before they finally leave, Kunimi’s bloodshot eyes drawing a look of sympathy from the receptionist. They return to Kunimi’s apartment, the one he and Kindaichi had shared. The one that had been full of home until Kunimi had ripped everything out of it for the sake of his sanity. Gave away the bed they had shared because it still smelled like Kindaichi no matter how many times he washed the sheets. He would have moved out if he could afford it, but winter had been ready to set in and that would have been too stupid even to his grief-stricken brain.

Kageyama doesn’t speak unless necessary, lying down behind Kunimi on the bed and holding him tightly. Kunimi doesn’t speak at all, and he falls asleep in Kageyama’s steady embrace, exhausted to the bone.

It’s midnight when Kunimi awakens, finding that Kageyama’s grip has grown slack as the soft wheezes of sleep hum rhythmically behind him.

“Thank you,” Kunimi whispers as he tucks in tighter to Kageyama and waits for the old guilt to settle in.

But it doesn’t. The massive elephant that sits on his chest every time he has thought of Kindaichi since the fight, since the accident, since the last time he saw his boyfriend before today, doesn’t come and squash him down into depression again. He still hurts — _god_ does it still hurt — but he no longer has that impulsive urge to turn off his feelings and forget that Kindaichi had been his pillar for half of his life.

“You’re welcome,” comes the barely-there answer behind Kunimi, and for the very first time in ages, Kunimi thinks that maybe everything will be all right.

 

 

Kunimi goes to see Kindaichi every day now after work, and Kageyama comes as often as he can manage with his increased school workload. They always go together on weekends before moving to a quiet arbor in a corner of a nearby park to sit on a bench and not talk about it. They don’t need to, because they know. Kunimi knows Kageyama wants to be the friend he couldn’t be when he was younger, and Kunimi realizes that he can never truly heal until his aching spirit catches up with the rest of him.

It’s on one such day, with Kageyama flipping vegetables in a skillet while Kunimi pours twin glasses of milk, when Kunimi’s phone rings. Unsure of who would dare to call him before seven in the morning, Kunimi looks at the caller ID to see an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” he answers warily.

“Kunimi Akira-san, please?”

Kunimi nods before letting out a shuddering breath and laughing at himself just a little. “That’s me. How can I help you?”

“This is Silver Hills Hospice. You’re listed as the emergency contact for Kindaichi Yuutarou.”

Fingers coiling tightly enough around the phone to mash a few of the buttons down in his ears, Kunimi starts to shiver. “That’s right,” he manages, drawing Kageyama’s attention away from their breakfast. “Is he all right?”

The woman on the phone replies, “He just woke up. Since you come by so often, we thought you would want to know right away.”

The phone drops from Kunimi’s hand. He turns to Kageyama, entire body shaking, as he asks, “Can we go now?”

Without question, Kageyama turns off the burner and puts the milk back into the refrigerator while Kunimi jams his legs into the first pair of pants he can find. He almost drags Kageyama out the door, and swallowing his own crippling anxiety towards the idea of riding in one, Kunimi hails a taxi. After doling out the address, Kageyama gives the driver an extra two-thousand to step on it, offering Kunimi a nod of solidarity.

They’re almost there before Kunimi can manage more than a few babbled words. “He woke up.”

Kageyama’s lips spread into a smile. Not the serial killer smile one gets when Kageyama forces himself to do it, but that soft, crooked turn of the lips that reminds Kunimi of the boy he had been so disappointed to see turn into someone unpleasant. The boy who had turned into a man Kunimi would not be there right at that moment without.

Outside of the home, Kageyama pays the driver while Kunimi sprints to the door. Barreling into the lobby, he speeds past the desk and straight to Kindaichi’s room without a backwards glance. There are footsteps behind him, but they’re familiar ones.

Ripping open the door, Kunimi gasps for air as he sees a nurse hunched over Kindaichi’s bed, holding up a glass of water to his dry, cracked lips.

Lips that turn into a pained smile when his eyes light on Kunimi.

“Akira,” he chokes, his voice a dusty shell of its former self, but invariably _his_.

“Yuutarou,” Kunimi sobs as he falls to his knees at Kindaichi’s bedside. “You came back.”

Kindaichi coughs, spurting out some of the water on himself as he waves off any more from the nurse. “I had to. I needed to know.”

“Know what?” Kunimi takes Kindaichi’s frail hand in his and gives it a squeeze. “That I was okay? You saved my life, Yuutarou.”

Kindaichi shakes his head. “No.” He closes his eyes and catches his breath. “That you still loved me.”

“I —” Kunimi lists forward and snares Kindaichi’s parched lips for a kiss he doesn’t know he needs until the familiar taste of his first and only love, laced liberally with almost a year’s worth of morning breath, touches his tongue.

Ready to cry, sing, and a number of other things, Kunimi rests his forehead against Kindaichi’s as the nurse sees herself out. “I always have.”

“I’m so —” Kindaichi stops when he sees the figure behind Kunimi. “I’m so lost.”

Kunimi turns around, only to find Kageyama’s steady, soothing presence. “It’s a long story. One we’ll have plenty of time to tell, but I owe him so much. Try and be nice to each other. For me?”

“Of course,” both Kindaichi and Kageyama say at once, and Kunimi gives a teary chuckle as he slides into the bed next to Kindaichi and relishes that familiar warmth against him.

That day, Kindaichi is transferred to the hospital for further recovery before being released a month later, able to walk out the doors under his own power. Bit by bit, Kunimi feeds Kindaichi slivers of truth until he is able to spin the entire story of how things have been since the accident for Kunimi.

Kageyama’s presence is still a strong one, but when Kindaichi comes home, Kageyama comes over once a day instead of twice, and he leaves them alone on their weekends to get to know each other again. Kunimi can’t help but wonder how he had learned to be a great friend, but he is grateful for it.

Things between Kindaichi and Kageyama quickly melt into a decent rapport, much the way Kageyama had insinuated himself into Kunimi’s very existence a year before.

They all attend Kageyama’s graduation from college, and Kunimi buys him the nicest frame in the shop to show off his diploma. When the sushi shop downstairs goes out of business (for good reason, Kindaichi complains after two bouts of food poisoning in three weeks), Kageyama wins the bid for leasing rights to open his own sports medicine practice. With nothing else to do with his day while his body recovers, Kindaichi is Kageyama’s first employee.

As the three of them wait for the first scheduled appointment of the day (Kunimi takes the day off to ring in Kageyama’s first day in business alongside him), Kindaichi claps Kageyama on the shoulder and says, “I can’t believe you’re so good at this. I didn’t think you did anything but volleyball.”

Kageyama raises a brow. “I know you two planned that.”

At Kindaichi’s confusion, Kunimi chuckles. “I said the same thing back when we first met up at the clinic.”

They all share a laugh, and Kunimi’s heart fills at the sound.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know. I am shame for making my babies sad.


End file.
